by Sandra Brown
He wished his nose would forget the tantalizing mixture of smells—fresh Christmas tree, fireplace smoke, scented woman flesh, and sex.
It had been eight weeks, yet he vividly remembered how she'd felt entwined with him beneath the fur coat he'd pulled over them before they fell asleep. The cavemen had had something there, sleeping naked with their mates under piles of fur. It was a custom Homo sapiens should have clung to.
Today Ria Lavender was all trussed up in a practical navy business suit trimmed with brass buttons and red piping. Taylor couldn't help but wonder if beneath that suit she was wearing crotch-teasing undies like the ones she'd been wearing Christmas Eve. He'd bet his newly won mayor's office that her skin was as warm and satiny as it had been then. And even though her hair was pulled back into a neat, professional knot, he could almost feel it sliding between his fingers, each long strand as luxurious as a black velvet ribbon.
He'd actually been glad to hear from her. Like a dumb kid who had scored with a woman for the first time, he'd been almost giddy when his secretary had buzzed him to say that Ms. Ria Lavender had arrived for their appointment.
Yes, he'd been looking forward to this meeting, curious as to why she'd contacted him, hoping that it wasn't strictly business. He'd quelled his optimism by thinking that maybe she wanted his company's bid to do the wiring on a project of hers. Still, he hadn't been able to suppress his excitement.
Then she'd hit him between the eyes with, "I'm pregnant."
It just wasn't possible. Situations like this didn't happen to grown men. To stupid, pimply kids, yes, but not to mayors-elect. This was either her poor idea of a joke or a damning accusation.
He looked at her suspiciously. Just what was this broad up to? He wasn't sure yet. For the time being he'd play devil's advocate and try to find out.
"Are you sure you're pregnant?"
Impatiently Ria recrossed her silk-sheathed legs. "Yes."
"Based on a late period?"
"Based on a reliable scientific method of determination administered in my gynecologist's office yesterday morning," she replied tetchily. "I'm pregnant, Mr. MacKensie, and you're the father."
He smirked skeptically. "Funny how we met, isn't it?"
The question startled her. "That's what cocktail parties are for, for people to meet. What has how we met got to do with this?"
"Maybe nothing. Maybe everything."
"I wish you'd get to the point."
"All right," he said, coming around to face her. "I made a lot of enemies in this recent election. They were determined to see me defeated. I wasn't. I won. But the swearing in is still a few months away. Let's say, for the sake of argument, that my enemies are looking for a way to discredit me. Where am I most vulnerable?"
"Are you always this paranoid?"
He ignored her and continued his train of thought. "I'm single. Bleeker has been married to the same woman for thirty-some-odd years and has eight children and fifteen grandchildren. He looks as folksy, established, and credible as Mr. Rogers. Nobody even thought of prying into his private life during the campaign.
"I, on the other hand, am thirty years younger and unmarried. I take a woman out to dinner and bingo"—he slapped his hands together—"everybody starts speculating on what we do together in bed."
Ria whisked a piece of nonexistent lint off her skirt and theatrically glanced at her watch. "I suppose all this is leading up to something. If not, I think it's fair to tell you that I'm only interested in what you did in bed with me, and only then because it resulted in a baby."
"I'm leading up to something, all right." He sat down on the corner of his desk. One Italian-leather-shod foot was planted in the maroon carpet; the other swung idly back and forth. He folded his hands over his knee, leaned forward and down, and took a bead on Ria's green eyes—which he couldn't help but notice were rimmed with incredibly long, curly, dark lashes.
"I don't think our meeting was an accident, Ms. Lavender. I think you were paid by my enemies to compromise me in the worst possible way."
"Are you insane?"
"That's it, isn't it?"
She shook her head in disbelief. "You won, you fool. If this was a political plot, it failed the minute the returns came in."
"I haven't assumed office yet. What better way to ruin me than to produce a pregnant woman claiming that I'm the father of her child? Bleeker would demand a—" He broke off when Ria started laughing.
"If I were a saboteur, which I most certainly am not, I would have done something that wasn't so hard on myself, something that didn't make me heave my breakfast into the toilet bowl every morning and make me so tired in the evenings that brushing my hair seems like an insurmountable task."
Ria became angrier by the second as the implications of his accusation began to soak in. "I didn't want this to happen any more than you did. It's going to be extremely inconvenient for me to have a baby right now. I have a career, Mr. MacKensie. I'm a well-established architect, with a heavy work schedule mapped out for the next several months."
"Tough luck. That only reinforces my argument for contraception. If you're going to screw around, you ought to practice some method of birth control."
Her face was white with fury. "I do not screw around."
"Oh, yeah? Well, my experience with you says otherwise. What'd you do, draw my name out of a hat? Did I get the short straw? Is that how you arrived at daddyo's name?"
"You creep."
"What do you expect from me? To fall all over myself thanking you for having my baby?"
"Are you going to hear me out or not?"
"I'm not." He pointed down at her stomach and shouted angrily, "Yankee Doodle Dandy could be the father of your kid, for all I know."
Ria tucked her purse under her arm and rose from her chair with regal composure. She turned on the heels of her red pumps and walked to the door. There she faced him again, her hand on the doorknob. "I wish Yankee Doodle Dandy were. Anyone, in fact, but you."
"May I come in?" he asked politely. If he had had a hat, it would have been in hand.
"No."
"Please?"
"Why?"
"I want to talk to you."
"And hurl more ugly accusations? No, thank you, Mr. MacKensie." Ria started to close the door. He stuck out his hand and caught it.
Ria looked at him closely. What she saw made her feel better. If his appearance was any indication, he'd had a hellish day. His dark hair was mussed. His tie had been loosened and the collar button on his shirt undone. He was holding his suit coat over his shoulder by the crook of his finger. He looked haggard and worried and tired. For a man who had gone through a heated campaign with nary a wrinkle, his dishevelment was a dead giveaway that he'd suffered some recent mental anguish.
Too bad, Ria thought. She refused to be moved to pity, not after the things he'd said to her. "Just go away and leave me alone. Forget everything I said this morning."
"I can't."
"I never should have told you."
"Of course you should have."
Annoyed, she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, while still blocking his entrance. "Need I remind you, Mr. MacKensie, that you didn't take the news too well? You were insulting and abusive."
"That's one of the reasons I'm here, to apologize for my knee-jerk reaction. Grant me one point."
"What?" she asked cautiously.
"That my initial reaction was just a teensy bit justified."
His eyes were intensely blue. They were set off by his dark hair and tanned face. Wary of their persuasiveness, Ria lowered her gaze to his vest. But that, too, evoked memories. Was it really possible that she had once unbuttoned his vest in a lustful hurry to touch him? Had her fingers fumbled in their rush to gain access to him? She couldn't imagine reaching out to touch him now.
She cleared her throat uneasily. Reasoning that she owed him the courtesy of accepting his apology, she decided to be conciliatory. "I suppose that what I had to tell you did com
e as quite a shock."
"Then will you please let me come in, Ria?"
Maybe it was because he addressed her by name. She couldn't explain it to herself afterward. But for whatever reason, she stepped aside. He came in. She closed the door behind him and they were alone.
The room had changed. It was filled with golden afternoon sunlight rather than flickering firelight. The fireplace had been cleaned out and a potted philodendron with leaves as large and flat as place mats stood in front of the brass screen. A leafy ficus occupied the spot where the Christmas tree had been.
"You have a green thumb," he remarked.
She inclined her head in acknowledgment of the compliment and indicated a chair. She sat down in a bentwood rocker. Both of them avoided the sofa, looking past it as though it weren't there. The room might have changed with the season, but the atmosphere still teemed with vivid and disturbing memories of a snowy night.
"Would you like something to drink?"
"Not if that's all you've got." He nodded toward the glass sitting on the end table beside the rocker. "What is that?"
"Alka-Seltzer."
"Are you sick?"
"I get indigestion every afternoon."
"Oh."
"I can get you a soft drink," Ria offered. "Or something stronger."
"No, thanks."
A clock was ticking. It seemed very loud. The rocker squeaked slightly each time it moved to and fro. Whenever their eyes accidentally met, they guiltily looked away, like children who'd been caught playing doctor the day before.
Ria wished she hadn't changed out of her tailored suit and into the old jeans and T-shirt. She wished she had on a brassiere. She wished she had on shoes. She knew that she needed to take a firm stand with this man. Bare feet weren't a very reassuring platform. Her hair was a mess. After taking down her bun, she'd only shaken it out. It hung unbrushed and untamed around her shoulders.
She knew the strain of the last twenty-four hours was evident on her face. She hadn't been able to hold down much food lately. Her cheeks were gaunt. No amount of Erase would hide the violet crescents beneath her eyes. She hadn't slept at all the night before, worrying over her dilemma and planning what she was going to say to Councilman MacKensie the next morning.
In the end she had decided to take the straightforward, honest approach. And just look what honesty had gotten her. His temper. His suspicion. His contempt.
"How long have you lived here?"
She roused herself to answer his conversational question. "Going on three years. Ever since I started working at Bishop and Harvey."
"It's a nice house."
"Thank you."
"Cozy."
"Uh-huh."
"Did you decorate it yourself?"
"Yes."
"This is a good neighborhood."
"The city keeps the garbage picked up and the streets repaired," she said, smiling sickly.
"Ah, well, that's good to hear." His smile was just as puny as hers. "It felt almost like spring today."
"Yes. I saw some daffodils already in bloom."
Sitting on the edge of his chair, his knees widespread, Taylor stared at the hardwood floor between his feet. The fingers of one hand were nervously doing push-ups against the fingers of the other. He forced a cough. "When, uh, when did you know about, uh, the, uh, baby?"
From all she'd read, heard, and experienced firsthand about Taylor MacKensie, stuttering was totally out of character. His voice frequently rang out in the City Council chambers as he waxed eloquently and intelligently on the topics presented for the council's review. His campaign speeches had been incisive, amusing, and articulate. Reporters' questions, even the most probing or complex, never left him at a loss for words.
It was gratifying to know that he was as uneasy now as she had been that morning before entering his office. Diving off the cliffs at Acapulco couldn't compare to how she'd felt when she'd walked through that door and faced him for the first time since Christmas morning. Especially in light of what she had to tell him.
"When did I know?" Ria kept her eyes averted. "I missed a period."
He fidgeted on the edge of his seat. "I understand that happens sometimes."
"It does. But never to me. I'm always like clockwork."
This time it was she who coughed. It flustered her to talk about such personal things to this stranger. Well, not exactly "stranger." Yes, this stranger. What did she really know about him? That he was handsome. That he knew how to open a bottle of champagne correctly. That he was a good driver on snowy streets. That he could charm the pants off a woman. Literally.
She began again. "I started feeling sick … not really sick, just…" She foundered, looking for a word that precisely described that bloated feeling, that lassitude, that inability to draw enough breath, that feeling of being full to bursting even when she was hungry. There wasn't a word descriptive enough. "There were just symptoms," she said conclusively.
"Like what?"
"Upset stomach. Emotional instability. Itchy—"
He cocked his head inquisitively. "Itchy…?"
"Breasts," she supplied huskily, having to force the word through her lips.
"Oh." He looked down at her chest and kept looking in that vicinity for a long, uncomfortable time. "I'm sorry."
She crossed her arms over her stomach, wishing she could place her hands over her breasts to shield her hardening nipples from his piercing eyes. "You know the symptoms," she said shortly.
Taylor looked completely baffled. "Yeah, I guess."
"Then I skipped another period last month. I finally went to the doctor yesterday, and he confirmed my own diagnosis. My due date is September twenty-sixth."
He expulsed a deep breath. The jury had just brought in a guilty verdict. "I guess that cinches it."
"There was never any doubt about the child's father, despite what you might think of my sex life, Mr. MacKensie."
"Make it Taylor, okay?" he demanded crossly.
Just as crossly she said, "Regardless of your 'experience' with me, as you so ungallantly referred to it, I don't sleep around."
"Forgive me for saying that. I shouldn't have."
Her angry outburst had exhausted her. Her shoulders slumped, and she rested her head on the caned back of her chair. "I suppose you had every right to think that." Her soft laugh was bitter and self-disparaging. "On Christmas Eve, I was an easy lay."
"Don't say that."
"Well, wasn't I?" She raised her head and looked at him directly.
"I never thought that. Then or now."
"You thought that this morning."
He ran a weary hand down his face and blew out another gust of carbon dioxide. "We're going in circles and getting nowhere." He held her gaze for a moment. "Look, I don't think you're an easy lay. Because if you are, then I am. And I'm more discriminating than your average tomcat.
"So let's just drop whatever recriminations we're harboring, self-imposed or otherwise, and try to figure out what we're going to do about the consequences, okay?" Ria only nodded. "What about this guy you told me you're seeing? The one with the elderly mother in Florida."
"Funny, Guy happens to be his name." She was surprised that he remembered the details. "Guy Patterson. He's an associate in the firm."
"Have you told him yet?"
"Yes. As soon as I'd told you. I felt I owed him that."
"And?"
Guy Patterson had taken the news of her pregnancy no better than Taylor had. Worse, in fact. He'd been livid, calling her in explicit terms the names Taylor had only implied.
"He's permanently out of the picture," she said without elaboration.
Actually, having Guy out of her life was a relief. Older by fifteen years, he was somewhat stuffy. She was tired of his staid, conservative ideas. Their conversations were boring, because he directed them to topics only he was interested in. When you got right down to it, Guy was a persnickety old maid, and not much fun to be around. The only reason she
was dating him was that nobody better had come on the scene. She wouldn't have chosen this earth-shattering way to break it off with him, but she was glad it had been done so irrevocably.
"You could have passed the child off as his," Taylor said tentatively. "Why didn't you?"
"I never would have done that," Ria exclaimed, taking umbrage. "What kind of woman do you think I am?"
"All right, I'm sorry."
"Besides, I couldn't have deceived him even if I'd wanted to. Guy had a vasectomy years ago."
He'd made no secret of it. When their relationship had developed into more than that of working associates, he'd told Ria that he might consider marriage, but children were out of the question. There was another reason why Guy couldn't possibly be the father of her baby, but she'd let Mr. MacKensie think what he would.
"Has this ever happened to you?" she asked suddenly.
"You mean fathering a child? No. How 'bout you? Have you ever been pregnant?"
"No." She wondered why she was pleased to know that this was new to him too. There was no explanation except that she would have hated knowing she was one of a group of unfortunates. Taylor's Tarnished.
He studied her carefully for a moment, but lowered his eyes before asking, "Did you come to me for financial assistance?"
"Financial assistance for what?"
"Any number of things."
"Like…?"
"Abortion. Is that what you plan to do?"
Ria turned her head, giving him her profile. Tears were glistening in her eyes. They reflected the light of the setting sun coming through the window.
"No. Mr. Mac— No, Taylor. I believe in living with my mistakes, not burying them. And for your information, abortions come cheap these days."
"I was only asking because the timing is right. I know there's a deadline before that, uh, solution becomes unfeasible."
"Are you sure you're not suggesting that's what I should do? Before you answer, I should warn you that that's a rhetorical question. I won't be having an abortion." She turned her head and looked at him squarely, almost defiantly. "Why else do you think I'd come to you for money?"
